The Interview
by Quallianmaghouin
Summary: A slightly different take on how Chase became a duckling. Genfic, Oneshot


The Interview

Dr. Gregory House bounced the large tennis ball off the wall distractedly. The earpiece of his phone was jammed between his ear and his shoulder, and he was only half listening to the man on the other end, blathering about his genius doctor son. He'd been fielding the same calls ever since word leaked out that he was assembling a team.

"Look, Doctor, uh…Childes? Chase? Sorry, Chase. Look, Doctor Chase, I have your son's file right here. Uh-huh, got the fax this morning. He looks promising. Looks like a shoe in. I'll give you a call back in a few days."

House reached over and tapped his pager's test button.

"I've got an emergency. Excuse me. Yeah it was nice talking to you too." House put down the phone, and spun his chair around. "Idiot."

House had been shredding anything that came in over the fax machine for the past week. It had become kind of a game, to see how fast he could have any trace of some young hopeful's résumé ripped to teeny tiny ribbons of failure.

He wiped a tired hand across his face, trying to rid himself of the migraine pounding behind his eyes. It had been a long day. He was tired, hungry, horny and in pain. He sighed and picked up the phone again, punching in the first number on his speed-dial. "Hey, Midge. This is Greg House."

He tossed his tennis ball into the air.

"Can I get my usual? I'll be home in an hour." He caught it and tossed it in the air again.

"Yeah, same address." He caught it and cursed as he failed to catch it a third time.

"Thanks Midge. Uh-huh, you too." A slow smile formed on his face and he punched the second number on his speed dial, patiently waiting out the spiel welcoming him to Antonio's'. House hated the snobbish restaurant, but it was one of the few places in New Jersey that would deliver a four star meal to your car door.

"I want two sirloin dinners, well done, and a bottle of your second cheapest wine."

--

Robert Chase wrapped his overcoat around him and stared down at his well-polished shoes, feeling uncomfortable. His driver had already left, and he found himself standing outside of a locked door, waiting for his latest date to arrive.

He had to snicker at his own thoughts. "Date" wasn't exactly the right word. Though, he mused, it wasn't exactly the wrong one either. Most of his customers did enjoy taking him out for dinner, or to parties before retiring for the night.

An annoyed voice jerked him out of his thoughts, and he looked up to see an older man limping towards him, a plastic bag smacking against his cane as he walked. Robert straightened up and self-consciously dusted the arms of his coat.

"Please God, don't tell me Midge sent _you?_"

Robert blinked. Midge? Oh- Margaret. He nodded. "I'm sorry. Margaret tried to call you but she couldn't get in touch with you."

"That doesn't explain why you're skulking around my door."

"Your usual is 'short and blonde' right?"

"And _female_."

Robert tried not to scowl. "You never specified. The lawyer's convention is keeping us pretty busy. I was the only available blond. She thought I might do"

The man sighed, and reached up to rub his forehead, apparently forgetting the handles wrapped around his wrist. He growled as he smacked himself in the face with the bag.

He thrust the bag at the smaller man. "Here make yourself useful. You can use my phone to call your driver." He dug into his pocket for his key.

Robert flinched. Dammit, he could've used the money. "Are- Are you sure?" He asked. "Margaret told me to tell you 'It's on the house'?"

The man snorted, taking the bag back and holding out his hand. "Greg House. And you're too pretty for my tastes."

"Steven Smith. You sure I can't change your mind?"

"Smith?" House raised an eyebrow, and steered the blond inside.

Robert bristled. "Like you would use your real name?"

"Claws in, Kitty. Didn't mean to get your fur ruffled." House threw his coat on the couch, and began unpacking the bag. "You like steak? It's Antonio's'."

-

"We ended up eating a steak dinner and watching American football." Chase leaned back against the counter and chewed on his coffee stirrer. Cameron sat across from him at the table, wide eyed. "Somehow we started talking about his job, he found out about my qualifications, and next thing I know I'm working here." He shrugged, and glanced at his coworker from beneath the fringe of his blond hair. "It wasn't exactly a conventional interview."

Cameron stared at him for a full minute before launching a roll of paper towels at his head.

"Ow! What was that for!"

"For making up that ridiculous story! I was genuinely interested in why you came to work here…and you..you… grr!" She growled and stomped out, muttering under her breath.

"But-" Chase tried to explain to her retreating back, bewildered.

He reached down to pick up the paper towels, snapping up quickly as the door opened again. "Cameron, I-"

It wasn't Cameron however, but House, who had stuck his head in the doorway. "Nope. Sorry. Saw her in the hallway though, she looked kind of pissed. We're you trying to look up her skirt again?"

"She's not wearing a skirt today."

"How observant. Pity though. Killer Legs."

House let himself in, taking over Cameron's abandoned chair. "We still on for tonight? The Patriots are playing,"

Chase pretended to consider it. "Antonio's?"

"Already called it in. I won't even make you wait on the doorstep this time."

"Deal." Chase said, grinning, playfully throwing the roll to House. "And don't think I'm letting you get away with cheap wine again."


End file.
